The Scarf
by burnttongueontea
Summary: A one-shot about John after the 'death' of Sherlock. Plain and simple.


He remembered learning, once, about the olfactory organs. The sense of smell. Apparently the least sensitive of our faculties for experiencing the world - an idea he disagreed with. Smell was subtle, but infinite, and the right smell at the right time could bring up the forgotten memories of a thousand lost days. Besides, as a tool for recognising individuals, smell punched far above its weight: every person's scent unique, complex, expressive. There was a reason why women preferred to choose a single perfume, and stick to it.

Anybody could look at a face. But getting close enough to smell another person's neck, their hair, their clothes? That impression goes straight to the heart. And it stays there.

* * *

"Obviously nothing appears to be be missing, but your landlady was worried that she didn't have an inventory of everything that should be in the flat, so she asked that I contact you. And here we are," the police officer, a tall young woman, said briskly.

"Here we are indeed."

He hoped that didn't sound quite as pissed off as it actually was. Apparently, it did, because she folded her arms.

"All you need to do is check that everything is in order. Then I'll ask you to sign some papers. It won't take any more than fifteen minutes."

"Yes, fine, I'll have a look."

Without taking his coat off, he took a short walk around the room. It certainly didn't look like a place that had been recently broken into: his neat piles of taped cardboard boxes in each corner were undisturbed, dust layer and all, and there was still a plastic cover on the sofa. More unusually, there were still a number of valuable antiques protected in bubble wrap. He was surprised that a thief wouldn't have taken them.

"You shouldn't really leave all these things here for a long period of time. It's perfect for the opportunist criminal."

He paused, looking at a stack of boxes. "I've nowhere else to put them. Besides -" he frowned at his own handwriting on the side of the containers, reading _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_ over and over "- it doesn't all belong to me."

He sighed, turning back. "Really, I can't see anything out of place. Are we done?"

"There was a filing cabinet in one of the bedrooms that seemed to have been forced open. It's possible they were looking for documents -"

"In which case, I couldn't help you. The documents weren't mine; I wouldn't be able to tell you if anything was missing."

"That's fine. Just one last thing. There was a scarf on the table, which seemed odd given that everything else was packaged away; did you leave that here?"

She opened her bag and took out a nondescript black scarf that was folded neatly into a square. He shrugged.

"Don't remember leaving it."

"So could it belong to whoever broke in?"

"I suppose so."

"Are you sure you don't recognise it?" she insisted, holding it out to him.

"Yes," he said, but he took it, anyway, and unfurled it gently. A wave of air must have been stirred as it stretched out; imbued with the scent of the material it wafted into his nose.

Oh.

Before he could think about it, he had pressed the scarf to his face, trying to place the exact nature of the smell even as he realised he knew what it was. Sherlock. His nose and mouth were soft and warm, protected under that layer of fabric which flooded them with the aroma of perfect familiarity. There's nothing more comforting than a lovely winter scarf. That cancelled out any painful trace of loss.

"Mr Watson?"

He noticed his eyes were closed, and opened them, sheepishly, wondering how that must have looked.

"Are you alright?" asked the police officer, an eyebrow raised. He pulled the garment away from his face.

"It's my mistake," he said. "I didn't recognise it in your hands. The scarf belonged to my flatmate. He - he doesn't live here any more."

"I see. So it's not related to the break-in. And you're quite sure nothing was taken?"

"Yes." He threw the scarf to one side and said, "Nothing taken. I'm so sorry Mrs Hudson asked you to do this. What a waste of your time."

"Not at all, Mr Watson."

"It's Doctor, actually," he said, with the little hint of pride that has to go with saying such a thing. "Dr Watson."


End file.
